The Lamp of Fate eBook

He seated himself beside her and took her in his arms,
blankets and all.

“Did you think I’d be willing to wait?”
he said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to marry me
at all!” returned Magda, the words coming out
with a little rush. “I thought you—­you
disapproved of me too much!”

His mouth twisted queerly.

“So I did. I’m scrapping the beliefs
of half a lifetime because I love you. I’ve
fought against it—­tried not to love you—­kept
away from you! But it was stronger than I.”

“Saint Michel, I’m so glad—­glad
it was stronger,” she said tremulously, a little
break in her voice.

He bent his head and kissed her lips, and with the
kiss she gave him back she surrendered her very self
into his keeping. She felt his arms strain about
her, and the fierce pressure of their clasp taught
her the exquisite joy of pain that is born of love.

She yielded resistlessly, every fibre of her being
quivering responsive to the overwhelming passion of
love which had at last stormed and broken down all
barriers—­both the man’s will to resist
and her own defences.

Somewhere at the back of her consciousness Diane’s
urgent warning: "Never give your heart to
any man. Take everything, but do not give!"
tinkled feebly like the notes of a worn-out instrument.
But even had she paused to listen to it she would
only have laughed at it. She knew better.

Love was the most wonderful thing in the world.
If it meant anything at all, it meant giving.
And she was ready to give Michael everything she had—­to
surrender body, soul, and spirit, the threefold gift
that a man demands of his mate.

She drew herself out of his arms and slipped to her
knees beside him.

“Saint Michel, do you believe in me now?”

“Believe in you? I don’t know whether
I believe in you or not. But I know I love you!
. . . That’s all that matters. I love
you!”

“No, no!” She resisted his arms that sought
to draw her back into his embrace. “I want
more than that. I’m beginning to realise
things. There must be trust in love. . . .
Michael, I’m not really hard—­and selfish,
as they say. I’ve been foolish and thoughtless,
perhaps. But I’ve never done any harm.
Not real harm. I’ve never”—­she
laughed a little brokenly—­“I’ve
never turned men into swine, Michael. . . . I’ve
hurt people, sometimes, by letting them love me.
But, I didn’t know, then! Now—­now
I know what love is, I shall be different. Quite
different. Saint Michel, I know now—­love
is self-surrender.”

The tremulous sweetness of her, the humble submissiveness
of her appeal, could not but win their way. Michael’s
lingering disbelief wavered and broke. She had
been foolish, spoilt and thoughtless, but she had never
done any real harm. Men had loved her—­but
how could it be otherwise? And perhaps, after
all, they were none the worse for having loved her.

Deliberately Michael flung the past behind him and
with it his last doubt of her. He drew her back
into his arms, against his heart, and their lips met
in a kiss that held not only love but utter faith and
confidence—­a pledge for all time.